Th1rt3en
by TheLovelyJudy
Summary: In which a fairy-tale enthusiast and day dreamer with a harrowing disorder must face her devastating reality in order to survive. Bane/OC No Romance. Deals with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (Not apparent until second chapter) Originally titled "Bittersweet"
1. Valerie the Day Dreamer

"Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination/Take a look and you'll see into your imagination/We'll begin with a spin traveling in a world of my creation/What we'll see will defy explanation/ If you want to view paradise simply look around and view it/Anything you want to do it/ Want to change the world/ There's nothing to it/ There's is no life I know to compare with pure imagination/Living there you'll be free if you truly wish to be.**"-Pure Imagination: Fiona Apple (Originally From Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory)**

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**Bittersweet**

_01: Day Dreamer_

My name is Valerie Hudson; I am a sixteen year old girl living in the heart of Gotham City in New York. I think I'm fairly pretty, I have strawberry blonde hair and I sleep with big curlers to ensure it's perfectly curled when I wake up in the morning. I have a little bit of acne, my biggest problem right now is blackheads on my nose. I'll have to pick up some face cleanser for that situation. I really like my eyes, their a bright greenish blue kind of color and I have long thick lashes. They look even more badass when I coat them in mascara. And yes, I am the granddaughter of the famous "Gotham City Beauty Queen" Bernadette Hudson. Nana is my dad's mother, and while he doesn't seem to appreciate her legacy I do.

I have to wait until I'm eighteen to participate in the pageant, I'm not even sure it's something I would like but I want my nana to be proud of me. I'm obsessed with Marilyn Monroe, my walls are completely plastered with her immortal image. I fell in love with the Hollywood icon when I was nine years old. And I was furious when my parents wouldn't let me change my name to "Marilyn Hudson" my grandmother and I watched all of her movies together, my favorite is Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I know everything about her, I know her movies backwards and forwards. Her tragedies only make her more wonderful in my opinion because I know that whatever I'm feeling Marilyn has gone through it too.

"Stop crying right now. Don't you let them know their getting to you. Look at you, you're fucking gorgeous. Hold your head up, put on some heels and red lipstick and be strong" I say to myself whenever I start to get upset; usually it works and I'm fine but of course sometimes it doesn't. I haven't seen my mother since she left my dad for a handsome gambler named Nicholas Bernal. They've attempted to reach out to me, but I locked that door long ago. My favorite person besides Marilyn is my grandmother. She met Marilyn once at a huge party, she tells me the story over and over and I never get tired of it.

I'm a hyper-feminine person by heart, and while I deck myself out in cute dresses and ribbons for my hair I'm actually quite rotten inside. I don't have a lot of friends, I don't care much for other people. I'd rather be by myself. It's not that I'm shy or anything like that, I just don't like other people. I'm too busy living with my heads in the clouds to make friends. Having friends is a pointless thing. Humans are born alone and we die alone. I prefer to be very independent person.

But you see, here's the thing. If you somehow manage to get close to me, if I regard you as someone special. I will treat you like you're the greatest thing since Lewis Carrol's "Alice in Wonderland" which happens to be my favorite book. The only people I'm close with is my nana and my father, I'm polite and friendly with people when I meet them but I have no intention in getting to know them and be their friend. Sorry about it, I guess.

I was born on April 28th 1995 in Gotham City. That's right, born and bred in the heart of this crime ridden city. People are often surprised that I'm not some tough butch girl considering the dangerous environment in which I was raised. Those people are stupid. I often fantasize that I'm a princess and Gotham City is my kingdom. I sit in class with my chin resting on my hand with a faraway expression on my face. Some people day dream to escape something that's hurting them; bullying or abuse things like that. I live a good life, people leave me alone and my dad gets paid well. I day dream because the real world is too boring and ugly for my taste.

The news won't stop talking about some guy named "Lane" or was it "Zane"? I don't know, I don't care about the news. It's so boring, so I watch one of my favorite movies "Funny Girl" instead and since no one is home I don't refrain from singing along to the beautiful Barbra at the top of my lungs. My father, in case you're wondering, works at the Stock Exchange. I'm not sure what he does exactly but apparently it's super important. I'm in the middle of belting out "Don't Rain on my Parade" when my phone chirps happily. It's a text from my dad. I turn down the television a little annoyed.

_In case I don't make it. I love you so much._

Huh. Well my dad's job is _really_ dull, I figure he's just playing with me. I'll text him later, after my movie. Suddenly the news interrupts Funny Girl with "Breaking News" and I scowl angrily. Wait…that's my dad's work. My stomach tightens up, no be calm. It's nothing. We are not those people, those unlucky to whom horrible things happen to for no reason. But then again, if it's breaking news it must be important. I turn the volume up and force myself to pay attention to what the balding news anchor is saying. "…hostages. The GPD is said to be handling the situation with great care" hostages?

My father is being held hostage? I swallow the lump in my throat, I'm not going to lie and say my dad and I are super close. We're not. He's the strict workaholic and I'm the silly day dreamer with my head in the clouds, he's constantly telling me to grow up. But he's my father and we love each other. "The hostages are walking out, no one appears to be hurt" the man says. I breathe a sigh of relief. But I can't see my father. I move closer to the television. I forgot my glasses in my bedroom, I hate wearing them. Suddenly men on motorcycles come shooting out of the main entrance. My father is on the back of one of them. It hits me that this isn't a problem I can ignore and wait to go away. My dad's life in danger and I'm really scared for him. I sit, frozen, completely unsure of what to do.

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	2. Her Dirty little Secret

"In my field of paper flowers/and candy clouds of lullaby/I lie inside myself in hours/and watch my purple sky fly over me/don't say I'm out of touch/with this rampant chaos/your reality/I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge/the nightmare I build my own world to escape"**-Imaginary: Evanescence**

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Thank you so much for the support You guys the best!

Th**1**rt**3**en

_02: Dirty little Secret_

I've washed my hands thirteen times. My skin is red and numb from the scalding hot water, I'll wash them thirteen more times in another five hours. I have to wash them every five hours or the germs will seep into my skin like little bugs. My dad is in the hospital with a concussion, the doctors say he'll be okay soon. But when I walk outside I stare at the ground to make sure I don't step on any cracks because _**I just know**_ that if I do something will go wrong and my dad will die.

I'm halfway to my nana's house when a new thought explodes in my head; _Did you lock the front door?_ I know that I did but the thought has bloomed into an obsession and it won't leave me alone. I walk back, counting from one to thirteen over and over again until I get there. The door is locked. So I start walking again, ten minutes pass and—_the lock the lock the lock you got to check the lock the lock the lock_ I try to fight it, try to keep walking but my hands are starting to shake. I walk back a second time, the door is still locked. I was supposed to at Nana's house at ten and it's twelve before I've finally managed to walk without turning back to check the lock for what feels like the hundredth time.

I'm there at twelve thirty and her expression is filled with sympathetic understanding, she's the only person I've talked to openly about my…issues. My father knows that I have a problem but he doesn't know how to handle it, he cracks jokes about it. I know he doesn't mean any harm but it still hurts. It started when I was nine years old, maybe even earlier than that. I was nine when they stamped the diagnosis onto my crazy file and everyone who found out acted weird around me. They figured that if I had a disorder of any nature it meant I was bat-shit crazy and liable to snap and go on a murderous rampage or something like that. Do you see now why I have such a hard time with other people?

My grandma leads me into the house and sits me down on her couch, "Last time you lasted six seconds. Let's try to go further okay?" she tells me as she collects some dirt on her index finger courtesy of the fern residing on the side-table near the couch. "Breathe Valerie, in and out. It's only dirt, it'll come off. It won't kill you. I promise" she lightly brushes the dirt on my cheek and my first instinct is to violently wipe it off and rub my skin raw with cleanser until it hurts. My hands are shaking in my lap. I can feel the dirt seeping into my skin. She finally wipes it away, "Nine seconds" she says

I breathe a sigh of relief. "How's your dad holding up?" she asks me as she wraps her arms around my shoulder. "He's doing much better now, he was mostly just shaken by what happened. He's going back to work tomorrow, he seems okay" I tell her. It's been three weeks since my dad's encounter with the masked terrorist known as Bane. Bane actually didn't kill anybody, but he stole extremely important information apparently. "Are you making chicken casserole tonight?" I ask her after a few long moments of silence, she looks grateful that I changed the subject. She's guarded with her emotions like I am. Neither of us wants to talk about how worried we are about him, or how scared we are of what's happening to our city. So we just don't talk about it. We push it aside, bury it.

I wipe down my utensils with a napkin thirteen times, and wash them in the sink five times before wiping them down again thirteen more times after that. My nana watches me with her sympathetic eyes, I wonder if I won't be allowed to participate in the beauty pageant in two years because of my issues. I wasn't allowed to participate in the school musical this year because the drama teacher saw "Mental Illness" in big red letters on my records and decided I was automatically a danger to myself and others. This was after I'd spent a weekend at the hospital because I'd broken my hand in five different places but that's a story for another time.

Dr. Phillip J West of _The Gotham City Mental Health Center_ once told me that I spend so much time day dreaming about fantasy worlds because I'm trying to protect myself from having to face my disorder. I think he's full of shit. My problem is not something I can just ignore or push aside, as much as I may want to. Every day is a battle. My nana is kind enough to wait for me before she starts to eat, a rush of guilt courses through me. Her dinner is getting cold. I'm wiping down my plate (thirteen times) and finally I'm able to sit down. We eat in silence. My middle finger is tapping on the table, my fingernail clicking on the wood rapidly. I count inside my head from one to thirteen over and over again. When I reach thirteen I abruptly stop, count from one to five and then start the tapping again

People ask me all the time why I do these things. I don't know why, I just _need_ to. Something inside of me compels me to do it, sometimes it feels like I can't control my own body at all. As we finish up dinner I venture into nana's library. I sit down on the arm chair by the fire and open up "Alice in Wonderland" Every thirteen pages I stop reading and wash my hands in the bathroom. My hands are discolored. The skin on my knuckles is cracked and chaffed from the constant scrubbing. But the story in my hands warps me to another world where I'm actually quite normal in comparison to its characters.

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My father isn't crazy about football, but he does like it and when his co-worker gives him two free tickets to the big game he invites me along. He doesn't want to go alone and I'm not doing anything so I figure why not. I take a bottle of hand-sanitzer with me, a packet of tissues, and disinfectant spray and put them in my purse. I wash my hands thirteen times before we leave, and rub handsanitzer on them every five minutes as we make the twenty-minute car trip to the stadium. My dad watches me and we both pretend that I don't know he's staring. The car must reek of handsanitzer now. The scent—usually nice and clean—has become so strong it almost stings our nasal passages.

I tell him I'm sorry, and I say this as I'm pouring another dime sized droplet into my hand. "It's okay, kiddo, let's just roll down a window" I smile and roll mine down. Finally we reach our destination and go through the whole process of actually getting in, I use tissues to wipe down my seat five times before sitting down. My dad and I are on the edge seats near the field. The crowd is wild with excitement. My finger is tapping against the rail in front of me. Thirteen times stop count to five and repeat again. A little boy walks out onto the field and we all fall silent. He sings the national anthem and everyone erupts into applause. I clap politely. As the players take their positions on the field I change the pattern. Five taps stop count to thirteen and repeat. Suddenly a huge boom shakes the earth.

People are screaming in terror. Chaos erupts and we all watch in horror as the field collapses under the player's feet and the earth swallows them like some sort of beast. That's when men with foreboding guns burst from the entrances to terrorize all of us citizens. Women guard their children, men guard their wives. My dad grabs my arm, "Don't move" he says and I can tell he's trying to be brave. I nod and—call me ridiculous—pull out my handsanitzer. I can't help it. I know it's not the best time to be worrying about germs when there's a very real possibility that one of these men might shoot me but I just can't help it. The horrible little monster inside of me has taken over my hands and I can't stop it.

Well, I could I suppose but I don't want to. I hate how I feel when I don't obey the compulsions to perform these exhausting rituals day after day. I feel so anxious, on edge, uneasy, and sometimes even nauseas. You saw how I reacted when my nana put dirt on my cheek, I know it sounds absolutely ridiculous but when I try to control my compulsions I feel like I'm going to die. The crowd falls into a terrified silence as a mammoth of a man walks out onto what's left of the field. The man from the new that I didn't care to learn or know about because I'd rather have watched my musicals and read my books; my dad takes in a sharp breath and his face has turned pale.

"_**Gotham! Take control. Take control of your city! This; This is the instrument of your liberation." **_His voice is muffled by the monstrous spider-looking mask on his face but he speaks loudly and clearly. I don't know if that makes sense. His men drag out a man and he walks over to him, _**"Identify your-self to the world"**_ the man replies "Dr. Lenard Pavil; Nuclear Physicist" _**"And what is this?"**_ "It's a fully primed neutrom bomb with a blast radius of six miles" "_**and who is capable of designing such a device?"**_ the doctor breathes in and closes his eyes in silent shame and guilt "only me" "_**only you. Thank you good doctor**_" the masked terrorist booms in an almost jovial tone before snapping the man's neck.

We all shriek and squirm in our seats. I close my eyes and will myself to venture into a different world where beauty thrives. I can get through this. _**"Now. This bomb is armed, this bomb is mobile and the identity of the triggerman is a mystery for one of you holds the detonator. Now we come here not as conquerors but as liberators to return control of this city to its people. But at the first sign of interference from the outside world or those attempting to flee; this anonymous Gothamite. This unsung hero, will trigger the bomb! Return to your homes, hold your families close and wait. Tomorrow you claim what is rightfully yours"**_ with that he walks away leaving us all shaken.

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	3. Say Hello to your Nightmare

Warning: This story is going to be extremely dark and heavy at times. Including Non-Con, Forced Sexual Stimulation/Orgasm, Torture, Self-Harm, Mental Illness.

Thank you Demonbarber14 for the review, you're such a lovely person :)

**Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder: **

Obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) is **an anxiety disorder** characterized by **unreasonable thoughts and fears** (obsessions) that lead you to do **repetitive behaviors** (compulsions). With obsessive-compulsive disorder, you may realize that your obsessions aren't reasonable, and you may try to ignore them or stop them. But that only increases your distress and anxiety. Ultimately, you feel driven to perform compulsive acts in an effort to ease your stressful feelings.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder often centers on themes, such as a **fear of getting contaminated by germs**. To ease your contamination fears, you may compulsively wash your hands until they're sore and chapped. Despite your efforts, thoughts of obsessive-compulsive behavior keep coming back. This leads to more ritualistic behavior — and a vicious cycle that's characteristic of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

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"In the morning light/she felt a new day coming in/opened her eyes in her quiet favorite place/there was no one there to break her heart/there was no one there to make her laugh/and she hid the secrets in a closet in her room/every time she felt sad/doesn't know since when/sometimes laughing crying felt the same/lying being honest felt the same"-She Said

Th**1**rt**3**en

**03: Say Hello to your Nightmare**

We drive home in silence, my father gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles blanch. I push and pull on the car door lock thirteen times; the clicking sound makes my father's teeth grind. He's scared and he's using anger to cover it up. He uses anger to cover up a lot of things; he used it to cover up his heartbreak when mom left him. Neither of us says a word, what is there to say? Death hangs over this city like a dark cloud. I push and pull on the lock thirteen more times. "Do you remember the trip I took for a couple of weeks when you were fourteen? You stayed the summer at your grandmother's house?" I search my memory bank and nod after a few moments. He blinks back tears of frustration and apprehension, and runs a red light. The cars honking don't really register in my mind but I am aware of them. My finger is still pushing and pulling on the lock when he speaks again.

"The stock market attack wasn't the first time I'd…encountered Bane…" he trails off and doesn't say a word for another eight minutes, we're halfway home. My brain has ordered me to switch the pattern, instead of lock; unlock; unlock; lock it's become unlock; lock; unlock thirteen times. I somehow manage to pinch my fingers and hiss at the pain but I can't stop. When I was twelve years old I slammed my fingers in the door thirteen times, my father heard me shrieking in pain and forcefully stopped me. I cried in his arms later that night as he wrapped my bruised and battered fingers in bandages. "I don't know what's wrong me with me, daddy. I can't help it!" I wailed desperately. My father called my mom but I didn't want to talk to her so I locked myself in my room and let myself become lost in my fairytales.

I will never tell him this, I slammed my fingers to punish myself. I'd touched myself down there for the very first time on a Saturday night when I was alone in the house. At church the next day Father Williams preached about sinful behavior and the black fiery pit that awaits those who turn their back on our lord and savior, he talked about masturbation and I felt my stomach twist violently. I was just a kid, I believed anything and everything grownups told me. Especially grownups I trusted and knew. I almost started crying right then and there because I was convinced I was going to burn in hell for touching myself the night before. I wanted to ask him how I could save myself but I was too embarrassed to admit I'd touched myself in the first place and I was afraid of getting in trouble for it.

So when I got home the little monster inside my head (who wasn't so little really) compelled me to slam my sinful fingers in the doorway until they were numb from the pain and I was sweating. I know now that masturbation is perfectly normal and even healthy but I can't bring myself to do it, I just can't. "I was working on a project with John Daggett, my boss…and I borrowed thousands of dollars from Bane and his men. I haven't paid it back…I don't think he saw me at the Stock Exchange and I don't think he even remembers…it was so long ago" the way he's talking I know he's mostly talking to himself. Trying to keep himself calm and level-headed about the situation. "And if he does remember?" I ask quietly, "I want you to run. Run and never look back" lock; unlock; lock again and again. We pull into our driveway.

I have to turn the light switch on and off thirteen times before I leave my bedroom in the morning. It's Thursday so I have to eat granola with fresh strawberries and bananas. I wipe and clean my utensils thirteen times to make sure they're perfectly germ-free and wrap the handle in a napkin. My father tells me frequently how ridiculous my rituals are. He's reading the morning paper and eating eggs with bacon. I'm not allowed to have eggs today, because it's not Tuesday. I actually am craving eggs and bacon right now but I know if I eat them _today_ something bad will happen. My fingers tap on the table, thirteen times stop count to five and repeat. I repeat the pattern five times.

The library is a block from our house, I dress myself up in high-waist floral print shorts and a white ruffled blouse with little pink rose buttons. My legging are white lace, and I slip on my black mary janes. I tie my hair back with a pink ribbon, biting my lip as I remember the tricks my grandmother taught me so I can make the bow perfect. It's a little cold outside so I grab my caramel colored jacket and put it on. When I reach my destination I am horrified to see my sanctuary completely destroyed. The windows are shattered, graffiti stains the brick exterior, and as I force myself inside I can see that it's worse.

Tables turned over, bookshelves turned over. It's so incredibly disorganized. "What're ya doing in here, lass?" a deep voice laced with an accent startles me. I spin around and see a rather handsome (I won't lie) man wearing combat gear stuff and a red scarf around his neck; he has facial hair and messy brown hair. "I came to read some books but…I can see it's been…" I trailed off, looking around at the destruction. Books lay with their pages ripped and their spines broken. "Ah yes, a few gangs have passed through here. Without any rules, love, everyone wants to destroy something."

"But why this place?" I ask him, tears in my voice. "this is…was such a beautiful place, I came here today because I wanted to get away from that horrible terrorist and what he's doing; I wanted to come here and lose myself in another world. It's how I've always coped, with my mother leaving and my sickness" I am babbling, I am saying way too much. I bite my tongue to shut myself up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ramble like that." He gives me a lazy half-smile, "There's no harm done. What's your name lass?" "it's Valerie" he grins, his eyes twinkling "Valerie. How old are you, love?" "I'm sixteen"

The silence that follows is a little too awkward for me, so I make my way to the exit. "It was nice meeting you" I say quickly and try to hurry outside. I'll go back home, I have that copy of The Wizard of Oz beside my bed, I've read it hundreds of times but one more time couldn't hurt. Before I know what happening a hand is squeezing my wrist, pulling me against a solid body. "Now hush, love, and listen to me very closely" I open my mouth to scream but his hand covers it and a huge gun is being pressed against my head and I freeze, terrified. "You'll be the youngest but I think he'll appreciate that"

What?

It isn't just him, there's another man dressed similary to the man who I was so polite and civil to me a few minutes ago. "Get her driver's license" the bearded man tells the other one, I have to wash my hands. Let me go, I have to wash them time is running out it's been five hours. "Valerie Hudson" the man reads out loud. "Valerie Hudson" the bearded man has let me go. "I actually feel pretty sorry for you, to be honest, love" he tilts his head, "why?" I ask him fearing the answer "because he's going to rip you apart and it won't be the least bit pretty, you can trust me on that"

One week, one week since that strange encounter; I ignored it as best as I could. What else could I do? Call the police? Ha. I pretended like it never happened. My father is out with his buddies, I am home alone watching re-runs of the original Addams Family on Tv Land. I laugh genuinely at the funny parts and pout in annoyance when the doorbell rings. "Coming" I say but don't bolt towards the door, instead making a quick detour to the kitchen to snag a few oreos from the pantry. Someone is pounding at the door, "I said I was coming" I bark in irritation. Rude ass people. I wrench open the door and my heart stops, the bearded man. This time he's holding his own gun, and it's huge. "Come with me"

"what? No, absolutely not!"

"_**You would do well not to make this harder than it needs to be, Miss Hudson" **_that voice. That voice! That mechanical deep thunderous voice! I know that voice no no no no no please god don't let it be him anyone but him. And it hits me, not only do I know that horrible voice but it's not coming from outside. It's coming from inside, from behind me. I whimper loudly, squeezing my eyes shut as terror washes over me without mercy. I wish I could click my heels and be whisked away to another world. _**"Turn and face me, child."**_ He commands and I obey him, terrified of the consequences if I don't.

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Suckish ending. Sorry about that.


	4. Betrayal of the Body

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away/now it looks as though they're here to stay/oh, I believe in yesterday/suddenly I'm not half the girl I used to be/there's a shadow hanging over me"_**-Yesterday; The Beatles (Covered by Lea Michele)**_

Warning: This story is going to be extremely dark and heavy at times. Including Non-Con, **Forced Sexual Stimulation/Orgasm**, Torture, Self-Harm, Mental Illness.

Thank you so much Demonbarber14, xxOpheliaxx, and atiketook for your reviews and support :)

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Th**1**rt**3**en

**04: Betrayal of the Body**

I stare at his dark brown combat boots. I won't look up at his face, my fingers clench and unclench thirteen times and I stop; counting to five and repeating the ritual as I always do. Those boots are coming closer, he is coming closer towards me and I can't move. _**"Where is your father?"**_ he demands, "I…I don't know" I lie, I know where he is but I'm not telling him that. His ruthless glare tells me he doesn't believe me. I was never very good at lying, I just don't have that talent I guess. His hand wraps around my throat, pushing me and pinning me to the wall so hard it takes my breath away. My body slides up the wall as he lifts me so that I am eye-level. I sob and claw at his massive arms, my whole body shaking from the terror racing through me. _**"I do not appreciate lies, little one"**_ he says and his voice sounds so gritty and deep, a voice from the depths of hell.

I start to kick at his legs, but it doesn't even seem to affect him. He shows no signs of discomfort or pain, and he stops my unsuccessful attempts to defend myself by pressing his body flush against mine. I haven't noticed that he's let go of my throat, and my relief when he moves away from me an inch or two is shattered when he pushes his hand just under the waistline of my shorts, I gasp and try to slap his hand away but he grabs my jaw quick as lightning and slams my head back into the wall so hard my vision goes black for a few painful moments. _**"Tell me the truth, Miss Hudson. And I might show you a sliver of mercy"**_ he mocks as his fingers dig into my pelvis. He doesn't look down to check me out or anything so I know this isn't sexually based for him. This is about intimidation.

"Th-This…this is about my father borrowing money isn't it?...Please…please just give us s-some time and we'll pay you b-back, I…I have four thousand in my saving r-right now I…I know that's probably not e-even half but…but it's something r-right? He g-gets paid pretty good so if we…if we just save up for a few w-weeks I'm sure we'll get enough to pay you back" My voice trembles as I struggle not to burst into tears like the baby I am, without warning he forces his hand completely down the front of my shorts, his finger nails scraping against the previously untouched flesh between my shaking legs. I scream and twist against his much larger body, tears streaming down my face as he forces two thick fingers into me all at once. He doesn't move them inside of me, but he brings his face uncomfortably close to mine.

"_**I am not interested in your father's money, child. He does however hold information important and I will get it one way or another**_" I squeezed my eyes shut, violent sobs racking my whole body. I am going to die. I am going to die. Oh my god, I am going to die! I feel his fingers start to move inside of me, I whimper. It isn't agonizing but it's extremely uncomfortable both physically and emotionally. But his movements aren't violent, his touch is gentle. Still, I don't want him to touch me. "Please stop" I cry at him, pushing at his broad shoulders as hard as I can but he won't stop. To my horror and shame my body starts to react, something in my lower belly tightens up and my hips arch into his hand without my consent. "No!" I sob talking more to myself than to him in that shameful moment.

He keeps his dark soulless eyes on my face, watching as I fight against my own body's reaction to his ministrations. I feel so awful and disgusting; I don't understand why this feels so good. It shouldn't feel good, what the hell is wrong with me?! "Get away from me!" I shriek, slamming my fists against him as hard as I can. He keeps on working his fingers in me, his thumb is pushing and rubbing at _something_ and it's making my legs tremble. I writhe against him, tears' streaming as my breathing becomes raspier and horribly wanton sounding moans escape my lips. I bite my lips in an attempt to muffle myself, "Please….stop it!" I don't want this, I don't want this! Why is my body is so fucking sensitive?! _**"are you going to cum Valerie?"**_ he mocks me, growling and his mask makes it sound so gritty and demonic to my ears. "N-No, NO!" I fight against my orgasm; I try to block him out.

I orgasm around his fingers, and he moves away. I slide down the wall, drawing my knees towards my chest and hugging them. I hide my face and sob quietly, Bane reaches down and grabs my arms, pulling me back to a standing position. I don't have the physical or emotional strength to fight against him and he forces me outside. I hug myself, I want so badly to take a shower but I know he won't let me. The handsome bearded man's expression is like stone. His eyes hard and without mercy, burning with loyalty to his master and leader; my fingers are clenching and unclenching; I have a tendency to clench them very tightly. Now imagine doing this over and over and over again throughout the entire day, your fingers start to ache after a while. I wince at the feeling of discomfort in my fingers but I know if I try to stop I'll only feel anxious, stressed, and on-edge.

_**"Are there many people who know about your illness, Miss Hudson?"** _Bane asks as he mounts his frighteningly large motorbike (or motorcycle? Is there even a difference?) "My…illness?" I don't want to talk about it, especially not with him. _**"Your obsessive-compulsive disorder, my dear"**_ another familiar ritual kicks in and I scrape my nails across my folded arms, thirteen times. It's a self-harming ritual and I tend to do it when I'm getting uncomfortable and nervous. "Please just leave me alone" I whisper stepping back, he starts up the bike. Something bursts inside of me and without thinking I run, bolting as fast as I can. I don't run back to the house because his horrible goon is waiting by the door.

I don't know what to do, my legs are burning. I can't go to someone's door, I can't put someone else in harm's way like that. I can hear the bike, but I can't figure out where it's coming from. The sound seems to surround me completely, it's getting louder so I run faster. I know that he would have been able to catch me not even seconds after I started to run, he's playing with me. Seemingly out of nowhere he's coming at me, I think for a terrifying moment that he plans to run straight into me and I let out a blood curdling scream.

Without stopping for even a moment, he lifts me up off the ground and onto the bike. _**"I trust you will not do such a foolish thing in the future, Valerie; because next time I will not find it amusing**_" his arms are around me. He moves too fast for my comfort, taking sharp turns that have me shrieking in terror. My anxiety is through the roof, I am not the kind of person who enjoys an adrenaline rush. There a few times I think we're about to crash and I scream, leaning back against his body instinctively. His chest rumbles against my back when he laughs at me. Finally he's slowing down, enough for him to talk to me. **_"You will stay with me while I work through the negotiations with your coward of a father"_**

I don't understand how dad got mixed up in all of this, what possessed him to ever approach this monster? "How long…b-before you kill me?" I ask him in a small timid voice, _**"I have not decided yet little one, perhaps when I tire of you"**_ he stops his bike and I can't tell where I am. _**"Welcome to the narrows, princess**_" he sneers at me in his mechanical voice, he gets off the bike but I stay on. _**"Come now, little one, the ground won't swallow you"**_ I don't want to go anywhere with him. "Take me home, please" I try even though I know it's futile. He loses patience it seems and grabs my arm in a vice grip, I cry out fearing he'll break it or something and he does pull a muscle when he harshly yanks me off the bike. I've heard rumors that he lives in the sewers with his men. _The sewers._

As we approach a closed off sewer opening, hidden in a darkened alley way I struggle to get away from his grip. "No, No! No p-please!" I squeak, shaking all over. I can't go down there, it's so…it's so…I'm teetering on the edge of having a full blown panic attack. "Don't m-make me go down there, Bane please!" I wail, my voice high-pitched and shaky due to my intense anxiety. _**"How weak and pathetic you are, Miss Hudson.**_" He booms in a voice that suggests he's both annoyed and amused by my fears. "It'll make…it'll make me so dirty" I try to explain it to him, but he is without mercy.

_**"I will go first, but be warned little one; if I hear you trying to run, I will catch you"**_ I don't say anything, closing my eyes as I struggle to cope with what's happening. I've spent so many years avoiding contamination and filth, washing my hands repeatedly every single day because I can't even touch my own kitchen counters without feeling like little bugs are chewing their way inside my flesh, crawling all over my body. I've checked the lock on the door over and over again, sometimes never going to bed at all. And now here I am with a monster who wants me to follow him down into the sewers.

The fucking _sewers_

I am frozen, I cannot move. The bugs are crawling all over me, I can feel them but I can't scream loud enough to make them go away. I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this…

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	5. Everything is Contaminated

Warning: This story is going to be extremely dark and heavy at times. Including Non-Con, Forced Sexual Stimulation/Orgasm, Torture, Self-Harm, Mental Illness.

Thank you so much Demonbarber14, ElektraMackenzie, Bibliophilechild, MandyLane, and atiketook for the wonderful reviews and support!

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Th**1**rt**3**en

_05: Everything is contaminated_

"_**My patience is growing thin, you will come down Miss Hudson or I will force you and believe me when I say you don't want that to happen"**_ He taunts me, I shudder and hug myself even tighter. The mantra inside my head is getting even louder, Five seconds pass by and before I know what's happening he's already out of the hole, his eyes deadly black. I cry out when he grabs my ankles and yanks hard sending me tumbling onto the floor. My chin slams into the ground so hard it makes my teeth rattle, the skin under my bottom lip splits open, I end up biting my own tongue and the blood fills my mouth.

"Please!" I scream as he drags me, his grip on my ankle is tight enough that I can feel my paper bones squeaking for mercy. I dig my nails into the asphalt, but quickly let go when I realize that it won't do any good and I'll only succeed in ripping my nails clean off. I kick my legs, but soon I'm halfway down the dreadful hole, Bane pressing against me from behind.

"_**Grab hold of the ladder and climb down, if you attempt to climb back up or you take too long I will break your legs and drag you down"**_ he growls, his mask digging into my neck. I whimper and squeeze my eyes shut, the metal ladder trembles with his quick and heavy steps as he makes the descent into the depths of hell. I force myself to climb down, _**"Welcome to your new home, my dear"**_ he mocks as he grips the back of my neck and forces me to look at him. I close my eyes, and without warning his fist slams into my lower stomach. I gasp in agony as tears fill my eyes, _**"Don't try to block me out, Miss Hudson. Your fairy tales and day dreams won't save you from this monster" **_I can hear the sadistic smile in his voice, the taunting and cruel tone. His eyes are shining with something dark and sinister.

"_**Barsad, get Miss Hudson a work uniform. You're in charge of her for now brother, but bring her to me when the night comes. I will return later, I have someone to deal with"**_ I don't know what that means, I'm just glad he's leaving for a while. Barsad's grip on my arm isn't as bone-crushing as Bane's but it's still demanding and cold. I walk with him to a small somewhat closed off space from the rest of Bane's lair. "Th-There isn't a separate room?" I ask timidly, "Change quickly, love, before I'm forced to make you do it myself" I huff angrily and grab the hideous grey uniform from him. I try to dress quickly. It's far too big for me and the color is absolutely grotesque, I wish I was on Bartlett Street right now.

I wish I was on a shopping spree with my platinum credit card between my fingers as I breezed through the high-end boutiques buying every pretty little thing my eyes fell upon. Some people have things like reading a book, listening to music, or exercising when they get stressed and anxious; I have shopping. I love to shop, I love to dress up in ruffly skirts and imagine I'm a princess from another time. I used to go with mom when I was little. Now I go alone, I don't care to invite anybody else along. Bartlett Street is my own personal heaven, the people there don't know about my illness and I don't plan on ever telling them. They're the only people who don't make unjust assumptions about me because I'm sick.

As Barsad leads me down a spiral staircase (who build that anyway?) my fingers curl and uncurl in their usual pattern, and I look straight down to make sure I don't accidentally step on any cracks. _Hold your breath for thirteen seconds; exhale and repeat _the controlling demon inside me whispers, the logical reasonable part of me questions why? What is the purpose of that? But I obey anyway, I know that no matter how strange or unreasonable my rituals can be sometimes it will only make me feel worse to ignore them. Thirteen seconds without breathing and only two seconds in between of taking in air is not making my lungs love me very much right now.

He has me stand in an assembly line with other people, we stand in front of line with machine guns dismembered and ripped open in front of us; Barsad tells me to start putting in bullets. These guns are going to hurt people, the bullets that lodge themselves into fallen heroes and innocent citizens will have been touched by my fingers. I don't get along with people, that doesn't mean I want them all to die; I can't concentrate on the task at hand. My anxiety is making it hard to breathe right now, when was the last time I was able to wash my hands? These aren't familiar surroundings, I don't know what to do or how to react—everything is contaminated and it's touching me and it's making me filthy and there's no where for me to get away from it and I think I stepped on crack on a crack on a crack on a crack.

"You better start working right away, the big boss man won't be happy if he comes back to see you ain't done nothing" a working man near me tells me, my foot starts to tap lightly at the ground thirteen times. I just stand, not able to bring myself to touch anything because everything is dirty. I know that I'll regret it later and tears rush down my face. Part of me hopes that when Bane comes back he'll be so angry that he'll just kill me.

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